"De rien." I turn away before anyone can say anything else, heat rising in my cheeks.
Cat is staring at me.
"What?" I demand.
"Nothing." But she's almost smiling. "That was—"
"Instinct. I don't like cheaters."
"Clearly." She falls into step beside me, and I notice the way people are looking at us now—some with curiosity, some with what might be respect. "You know that vendor's going to hate you forever."
"He won't last the summer."
Cat actually laughs at that. "God, you sound like Grand-mère."
The words hit me somewhere tender. I look away, pretending to study a display of lavender soap.
"Iris." A hand on my arm makes me turn. Monique has appeared from somewhere in the crowd, her sharp eyes studying my face. "Walk with me for a moment."
It's not really a question. I glance at Cat, who nods and takes my shopping bags.
"I'll meet you at the café," Cat says.
Monique leads me away from the crowd, toward the quiet edge of the square where a stone fountain bubbles gently in the shade. She settles on the fountain's edge and pats the space beside her.
"Sit."
I sit.
"You defended that tourist," Monique says. "That was well done."
"Anyone would have—"
"No.Not anyone." Her eyes are steady on mine. "Most people look away from injustice. It's easier. But you stepped forward. That is Marguerite in you."
I don't know what to say. The comparison feels too large, too unearned.
"She loved you, you know," Monique continues. "I have never seen anyone grieve an absence the way Marguerite grieved yours. Every Christmas, every birthday—she would set a place for you at the table. A ghost's place, she called it."
"I didn't know." My voice comes out rough. "I didn't know anything."
"Your mother made sure of that." Monique's tone is matter-of-fact, not cruel. "Colette was always... rigid. She saw the world in black and white, right and wrong. No room for gray."
"What happened?" I ask. "Between them. Between my mother and Grand-mère. Was it—" I hesitate. "Was it because of Hélène?"
Monique is quiet for a long moment. The fountain burbles. Children's laughter echoes from somewhere across the square.
"That is not my story to tell," she says finally. "But I will tell you this: Marguerite and Hélène had one of the great love stories of this village. Thirty-five years together, facing everything side byside. When Hélène died, Marguerite told me she had no regrets—not about loving her, not about anything."
"And my mother?"
"Your mother could not accept that kind of love. Some people can't." Monique's eyes are sad. "She made her choice. And Marguerite spent the rest of her life paying for it."
Before I can respond, a voice calls across the square.
"Monique! There you are!"
A woman is approaching—my age or a little older, with short dark hair and a bag slung over her shoulder. She's striking in a way that has nothing to do with conventional beauty: confident stride, sharp cheekbones, an easy smile.
